


Wasted Hours

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst and Porn, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is respectful. John keeps his distance. He doesn’t look at Sherlock when Sherlock decides trousers are for dull people. He doesn’t breathe in and savor it when Sherlock flings himself onto the couch first thing in the morning, wafting alpha scent, dressing gown settling around him in a cloud of blue silk. He doesn’t linger when he’s piecing Sherlock back together after a fight, even though he’s half-dressed and beautiful and <i>right there.</i></p><p>He can ignore it. He can control it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pueey through johnlockchallenges's V-Day Exchange, who requested UST, omegaverse, top!Sherlock, smut/angst. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s not unheard of in this day and age for an alpha and an omega to share a flat, especially not in the city. So John’s only a little surprised when Mike’s friend turns out to be an alpha. A particularly… _alpha_ sort of alpha at that.

At dinner that night Sherlock makes it very clear he doesn’t do relationships, which is fine by John. Then Sherlock gets himself kidnapped by a serial killer, and John is surprised by the sense of fierce protectiveness that surges through him. He chalks it up to the fact that Sherlock Holmes has a truly remarkable brain, and John would like to keep it free of bullet holes.

That isn’t all, but John doesn’t see it for some time.

———

The predictable complications of living with an alpha don’t surface until the end of their first month together. John quickly realizes that there’s a conversation that they need to have now rather than later.

“I’ll be out next week,” John says.

Sherlock looks up from his questionable pile of viscera and frowns. “What for?”

“Personal matter,” John says swiftly.

“Estrus, then. Don’t see why you have to leave, but whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Whatever makes me—” John stops and backtracks. “What if I want to...do something?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ll leave if you’d prefer, but it’s unnecessary. I do have an omega brother, and my self-control is ironclad. You can consider your virtue unthreatened, though if you’re uncomfortable with my presence, I have alternative—”

John holds up his hands in surrender. “No, it’s…fine.”

———

After the denouement of a case, they storm back into the flat in a cloud of adrenaline and laughter. Sherlock eats himself half into a coma and John does—well, anything he can do. He can’t sleep when he’s that high-strung. He’ll clean the flat, do the dishes, start typing up the case for his blog, anything that keeps him running until the inevitable crash. On a few occasions, he stitches up bits of Sherlock Holmes in their bathroom, Sherlock perching on the sink or the toilet or the edge of the tub while John stands over him, steadying his elbow on the tile and catching his tongue between his teeth as he threads the needle and carefully guides it through skin.

“You’re getting rather good at this,” Sherlock says.

He’s sitting in the bathtub, shirtless, and John on the edge. He’d gotten a fairly nasty stab wound in a struggle with a blackmailer. Sherlock _hates_ blackmailers. John privately suspects that it makes him rather stupid when dealing with them. His most convincing evidence for this at the moment is the twelve-centimeter laceration on Sherlock's left upper arm.

“You’re giving me a lot of practice,” John says mildly.

Sherlock bites his lip as the needle exits the other side of the wound.

“It would go much better if you’d get some lidocaine for the flat,” he says.

“It would go much better if you’d go to hospital. These are my little ways. One day, they will win out.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says. “Why should I trust anyone else when I’ve got you?”

He catches John’s eye. John pauses.

Sherlock’s glittering eyes are locked on his, looking him over without moving an inch. John’s chest feels tight. At once it’s like the rug’s been pulled from under his feet and like he’s weightless. The moment stretches between them like taffy, tempting and promisingly sweet.

John licks his lip. Sherlock tracks the movement, then drags his eyes slowly from John’s mouth back to his eyes. His lips part. Sherlock smirks.

John looks away with a tiny shake of his head, and the moment breaks.

“Careful with that,” he says, pressing down on the corners of the taped bandage. “If you rip those out I’ll let you get an infection and a massive, great scar and I will laugh.”

———

John tries bringing home an alpha once and once only. She walks inside, gets a whiff of the flat, and walks straight back out.

“I’m not getting into any kind of fight for you,” she snaps as she throws her coat on and storms down the stairs. “If you want to walk out on your mate, fine, but not with me. I don’t do that.”

John tries to explain, even through the simmer of early heat. But it’s impossible. The strength of his word is nothing compared to the strength of the evidence.

So once every two months, John locks himself away for a week and stuffs himself with silicone until he sobs.  And if he ever thinks a name, he keeps it shut tight inside his chest, never allowing himself to so much as think it.

———

Then comes the swimming pool, and the red laser sights dancing across Sherlock’s dark curls, and the explosives wired against John’s chest. John tries to die for him, and Sherlock looks as if he’s been shot.

Afterwards, Sherlock drops to his knees in front of him, and John sees his face as he says _“are you all right?”_

“Yeah,” he says, and thinks _oh, shit._

———

Sherlock doesn’t notice.

John is respectful. John keeps his distance. He doesn’t look at Sherlock when Sherlock decides trousers are for _dull_ people. He doesn’t breathe in and savor it when Sherlock flings himself onto the couch first thing in the morning, wafting alpha scent, dressing gown settling around him in a cloud of blue silk. He doesn’t linger when he’s piecing Sherlock back together after a fight, even though he’s half-dressed and beautiful and _right there_.

He can ignore it. He can control it.

John knows he _could_ have him the once, have everything he wants. Expose Sherlock to him during heat, when Sherlock will want him no matter what his higher functions say. He might still resist, but he couldn’t forever.

The thought is _horrifying._ He would have Sherlock that once, but not the way he wants, and after? He’d lose him forever.

So he keeps locking himself up alone every eight weeks, tries to get Sherlock Holmes out of his system in the dark of his bedroom, alone.

———

John has been kidnapped, imprisoned or otherwise taken at least a dozen times since he moved in with Sherlock Holmes. Statistically speaking, he was bound to go into heat during captivity one of these days. The balance of probability is only too happy to follow through.

He wakes slowly to someone calling his name.

“John.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock?”

He opens his eyes and blinks them into focus. They’re tied to each other back-to-back around a pole. The room is large and dimly-lit, with cement all around. Warehouse, most likely, or abandoned parking garage.

John squirms.

_Oh no._

“John, tell me you can hear me.”

John grunts. He was aiming for “no,” but it’ll do.

“John, listen. You’re going into heat.”

John suppresses a shudder as something ripples deliciously through his midsection. “Yeah.”

It’s not so much “going into” at this point as “very much _in,”_ but the specifics don’t seem all that important.

“Our captors. If they return and...find you, they will almost certainly take advantage.”

That wakes John _right_ up. It’s the stuff of omega nightmares, being in heat and at the mercy of a stranger. Normally, you could fight them off. Normally, you wouldn’t be craving a knot more than you fear the alpha. But now? John gulps. He clenches and unclenches his trembling hands.

Sherlock gropes behind him until he can catch hold of John’s hand. John swallows a pleased sigh and doesn’t trace the lines on the inside of Sherlock’s hand. “John. Stay with me.”

John’s eyes drift shut. He can handle this. He’ll take care of it. Just…not right now.

“John.” 

His eyes fly open. He deliberately bangs his head into the pole once, hard. “Shit!” He blinks hard and tries to clear his vision. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

Sherlock relaxes an iota. “Good. Now, I need you to pay very close attention. Are you listening?”

John arcs his back and pushes his arse against the floor like it’ll relieve the itch. Instead, it blossoms through his abdomen like a plume of fire. He doubles over and groans.

“John!” 

Sherlock’s voice resounds like a whip crack. John jerks upright.

“They’ll come back with three men. They’re planning on putting two on me and one on you, but given the—situation, they may all go for you. Be prepared to fight.”

John swallows. His mouth feels dry.

“I’ll take care of the rest. Are you with me?”

He nods. The ropes around the two of them are looser than they were. That'll be Sherlock, being clever.

At the end of the warehouse, the door creaks open.

He isn’t entirely sure what happens. Everything goes a bit sideways for a minute, and when John's next fully aware of himself again, he’s pinned one of their captors to the ground, his fingers are wrapped his neck, and he's squeezing down hard.  


“John.”

He bares his teeth. He can feel the man’s hyoid bone bend under his thumbs, almost to the point of—

“John, that’s _enough!”_

He drops his hands and falls backwards against the wall. The man does not move.

Sherlock kneels and checks for a pulse.  “Just unconscious,” he says, then turns his eyes on John.

John is panting for breath. He’s very, very aware of the slick slide of his arse when he moves, and of the blood roaring in his ears, and of the hungry look in Sherlock’s eyes, whose pupils are at high tide. John breathes very slowly.

“John,” Sherlock says. He savors the name, rolling it down his tongue like a sweet. John wonders what else he can do with that tongue.

Suddenly, the persistent ache in his gut flares to life and he jackknifes forward, holding his stomach as his breath is forced out in a quick “ha.” He throws out a hand to brace himself. He’s still trying to get his breath back when Sherlock reaches out his spindly fingers and brushes them over the backs of his knuckles.

“You’re safe,” he’s saying. “We’ll be home soon. There’s nothing to be afraid of. No one is going to hurt you.”

He sounds nothing like himself. It’s the hormones, John's traitorous endocrine system flooding Sherlock’s senses with desire, stripping away their control and leaving nothing but animal survival instinct: eat, breed, kill.

What does it say about John that knowing it only makes him wetter and harder?

He shuts his eyes and tries to maintain control. _Don’t beg, don’t beg him, don’t do it. Don’t do that to him. It’s not real._

Sherlock is still rubbing his fingers up and down John’s hand. It feels like every nerve ending in his body has relocated to that patch of skin. He grimaces and swallows down a needy whine.

“We’ve got to get out,” he says.

Sherlock blinks slowly. “The, uh, police are—on their way. Down the stairs now.”

They kick the door in six seconds later, get one sniff of the room, and go pale. One young alpha starts to move towards John.

“Back off,” Sherlock barks.

The officer does not stop. Lestrade pushes through and grabs the kid by the collar.

“Patel! Out!” That wakes him up properly. He makes his way out past the assembled officers.

Lestrade separates the two of them and puts an omega doctor on John, who diagnoses him as exhausted but healthy. Her hand is warm and soothing on John’s arm.

“Get home and take care of yourself,” she says kindly.

John laughs, high and nervous, and nods.

Sherlock is bullying his way through the crowd with a half-taped bandage on his head. He grabs John by the shoulders.

“We’re leaving.”

Lestrade drives them home. John will thank him later. Cabbies are always a risky bet this far into heat. Sherlock rides in the back with him and sits too close. John curls up against his side and rubs his cheek over the scratchy wool of his coat. Sherlock puts a hand on his knee. John turns his head towards him and breathes in, letting the sharp-hot- _safe_ smell of his mate diffuse through him.

Not mate. Sherlock is his friend. His _friend_. None of this is real. It's just a bunch of stupid vestigial impulses lingering over from the caveman days.

John's stomach tenses. He holds tight to Sherlock’s arm, bracing, and gasps as his internal muscles clench and spasm. Sherlock strokes his hair as he shudders. The weight of Sherlock’s hand on the back of his neck is equally comforting and tantalizing.

“Nearly there,” Sherlock murmurs.

John grinds his teeth. He can’t remember having ever felt this miserable in his life. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing: in three, suspend three, out three.

The car rolls to a stop.

“This is you,” says Lestrade.

His voice is gravelly and his face is flushed. _I did that,_ John thinks, and feels a liquid pulse in his groin.

Sherlock helps him out of the car and up the steps to their flat. John would be embarrassed, but his legs are shaky and coltish and frankly, he’d fall down the stairs without.

He collapses backwards onto his bed and spends a moment just luxuriating in the ability to relax. Soft sheets, thick, cozy duvet, _yes_.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed.

_Oh, God._

John turns his head.

Sherlock’s hand is hovering between them. His lips are parted and his eyes are wide.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

John’s face burns. _He doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want_ you. _But you want him, and you could have him, caught like this. If you just—pushed—_

John hates himself for wanting it. He hates himself worse for considering it. But he hates himself most of all a moment later, when he opens his mouth and asks for it.

He shuts his eyes.

“Please.”

For a moment, the room is still and quiet save for their hot, labored breathing. John presses his hand to his mouth to smother a moan. He can’t look now. He can’t move. He’s already done enough.

The surface of the bed shifts. John hears Sherlock’s footsteps cross the room, the swish of the door, and the click of the lock behind him.

———

He gets through it alone. It’s as awful as ever.

———

A week after, John and Greg end up in a pub, making an effort to get well and truly pissed. Greg does a lot of whinging about his recently-exed ex-wife. John nods and listens and paces his drinking and privately parses through his mixed feelings of relief and disappointment over the bedroom, and the heat, and the “please.”

“Anyway, enough about me. How are you?” He leers.

John pretends not to get him and takes another drink.

“Come on, how’d it go?”

John smiles tightly. “It didn’t.”

Greg goggles. “What?”

“It didn’t. He wasn’t interested.”

Greg shakes his head. “Bollocks. He’s interested. Anybody with eyes can see he’s interested.”

John swallows another mouthful of beer. “Well, he wasn’t.”

“And for that matter,” Greg continues, with the willful single-mindedness of the intoxicated, “not to get too personal, but anyone with a nose and a knot was interested in you.”

“Except the one I’d have.”

He regrets it immediately. Greg considers him for a moment, letting John stew. Then he leans forward, suddenly serious.

“Look, mate,” he says. “I’ve seen Sherlock around omegas in heat before. Barely ruffles him. Just looks...tense. You know how he is sometimes.”

John nods.

“But you ruffled ‘im. He’s _still_ ruffled. Now, I don’t know what went on between you two, but that man is most _definitely_ interested. So if he didn’t have you last week, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. There’s something else there. Don’t give it up.” He relaxes back against the leather of the booth, nodding sagely.

John smiles tightly and jerks his head into a nod. “Yeah.”

———

Sherlock leaves the flat for the duration of John’s next heat.

John tries not to wish he hadn't.

———

The next time John is kidnapped, Sherlock is not.

At first he’s relieved, because his next heat's not due for three weeks. But then he notices the quiet burn and the low-grade fever, and with dawning horror realizes that he’s been induced.

No one comes. No food, no alphas. It’s genius, really. He can hardly fight back or try to escape in his current condition. And heat slows down an omega's metabolism, like a bear in hibernation, so he doesn't need to eat.  But in the absence of proestrus and the accompanying uptick in caloric intake, his body is forced to start consuming fat stores. By day three, John can feel the difference.

He sleeps as much as he can. He’s not tied up, so he’s free to make a couple goes at the door. But it’s a basement, the door’s at the top of the stairs, he can’t get a running start, and he can’t seem to get his foot to come down on the lock where he’s aiming.

On the fourth day, John gives in and wanks himself into exhaustion with Sherlock’s name on his lips. It doesn’t help.

The door opens on the fifth day.

John scrambles into the corner and crouches, bringing his limbs in to protect his soft underbelly. The light blinds him for a minute, so he can’t see who’s kneeling in front of him and holding out his hands.

“John. John, you’re safe. You’re alright now. John!”

Sherlock takes him by the shoulders and guides him back. John collapses against the wall and slumps to the floor. Sherlock pushes into his space, pressing his forehead to John’s and pulling him closer.

“Did they hurt you?” he demands, positively vibrating with rage. “Did they touch you?”

John shakes his head. “Mm. No, just—left me.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop touching him. He combs his fingers through John’s hair like it’s a compulsion. John tips his head back into Sherlock’s hands and bares his throat. Sherlock closes in and scents down John’s neck, and John’s breathing breaks with a soft little half-groan.

But then suddenly, Sherlock is tearing back and pulling away. John nearly _screams_.

“Sherlock.” He tries to blink himself back into clarity.

Sherlock is shaking his head, He's still got a tight grip on John’s shoulders. “No. No, we have to get you home.”

John considers all that “getting home” entails. There’s walking involved, and leering passerby. “No, really, Sherlock, it’s fine.”

“But it’s _not,_ is it?” Sherlock snaps. He nearly twists away, but stops short of letting go of John. “Not like this.”

John frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. His face crumples briefly inwards, then smoothes. “I mean this.” He looks John pointedly up and down. “I...can’t be trusted with you like this.”

John scoffs. “I’ll risk it.”

Sherlock shakes his head and grimaces. “But you’re _compromised_. Pheromones, the drugs—in your lucid periods you’ve _begged_ me not to—”

Begged? When—

_Oh_.

John laughs. _Actually_ laughs aloud. He reaches out and cups Sherlock’s face, which by this point is a mess of confusion.

“What?” he demands. “Why are you laughing?”

“Is that what you thought?” John says. “When I said ‘please.’ You thought I was—begging you to _leave?”_

Sherlock drops his gaze. “It was a sensible reaction. You’ve never indicated any sort of—interest. And I was pursuing sex without explicit prior negotiation, which is a substantial consensual gray area.”

John smiles and ducks his head. “That, er, wasn’t what I was begging for.”

Sherlock blinks. “You mean you—”

John nods. “Yes!”

“With me?”

“Yes, you daft bastard,” John says, pulls Sherlock’s face in, and kisses him.

Their bodies surrender immediately. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth, which makes Sherlock shiver and pant and clutch him all the harder. Sherlock runs his tongue along John’s lower lip, silently asking permission. John parts and lets him in.

Sherlock takes him by the waist and drags him in. John’s legs spread reflexively. The motion pulls John so Sherlock is kneeling between his legs. When Sherlock leans in to kiss him that much harder, it brings their clothed erections just into contact, and John gasps.

He feels it coming, the tension in his core vibrating outwards. Perhaps he should warn Sherlock?

“Sherlock,” John whispers hoarsely. “I’m— _ah_ —spasm—”

His teeth clench shut and he groans as his muscles ripple, grasping for a knot. He rocks back and forth, holds on to Sherlock, and whines through the waves of need so acute it hurts. When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock looks fucking _demolished_.

“Once I’ve had you,” he says, and _oh_ , doesn’t it make John wet to hear that, “I won’t want to stop. _You_ won’t want to stop. We have to get home.”

John winces. “How long—”

“Texted Lestrade. Any minute.”

Footsteps upstairs. John thinks of lovely things he could get for Lestrade, like a Rolls-Royce, or a boyfriend.

Lestrade is alone this time. “What—” he says, then looks alarmed. “Come on.”

Lestrade moves to help John up. Sherlock bats him away with a hiss and protectively clutches John’s waist.

“Easy, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “You okay, John?”

John nods, teeth chattering.

“He will be when you get us home,” says Sherlock, with his darkest glower.

This time, when Sherlock helps John into his room, he does not leave. There are no receding footsteps, no terminal click of a lock.

Instead, he looks John over once. He has already shed his shoes and socks and jumper, and is pulling anxiously at his buttons. He drops his coat.

Sherlock attacks.

John surrenders, spreads his limbs and offers himself up. Sherlock mouths his way down John’s neck.

“You think you’ve cleaned the flat sufficiently after your heats,” he says, “but you never do, you _can’t_ , not with my nose.” He sucks a mark into John’s pulse point. “I can’t _breathe_ in here for a week without imagining you spread open and _dripping—”_

John arches and moans.

“—gorging yourself on plastic that can’t ever quite fill you up like flesh.”

Keening, John tugs at Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock’s voice is subsonic. John fancies he can feel it rattle the marrow in his bones. “For that _entire week_ I can smell all of that, and it makes me so hard I can’t even _stand.”_

“Oh, God,” John gasps. “We need to be naked.”

Sherlock doesn’t leave off his neck. At this rate, he’ll be trying to fuck John through their pants. John wants absolute nudity, bare skin slip-sliding against bare skin.

So he grabs Sherlock’s lapel and _rips_.

Most of the buttons yield, but John hears one or two stitches pop. Sherlock strips his shirt off and flings it away. He has to roll off to remove his trousers and pants. Because John is busy divesting himself of his own clothes, he misses the moment Sherlock peels his underwear down his thighs and lets his cock flex free.

Sherlock lies on his side next to John. One arm is tucked up under his head, but the other...John looks down.

“Shit.”

Sherlock’s velvety laugh nearly destroys his focus. But he holds it, mouth watering, as Sherlock slowly pumps his thick, leaking cock.

“One day,” John says, “I want that in my mouth.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush. John thumbs over the splash of pink and bites his lip.

“But tonight—”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, and kisses him again.

There’s a little awkwardness trying to get everyone’s limbs arranged, and a moment where John almost kicks Sherlock in the face. John gets a little giggly, punch-drunk on pheromones as he is, and Sherlock is very nearly offended. But then it seems to fall together.

Sherlock raises John’s feet up and sets them on his shoulders. John shivers, then starts to shake a little more with another tremor. Liquid seeps out wet and hot between his cheeks.

“Ah. Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks slowly. “Yes, I’m—yes.”

John is still shivering when Sherlock lines up and eases in.

His eyelids flutter as he fights the conflicting urges to pull in and bear down. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock doesn’t answer in words, just moans.

The first little bit is easy, just a little more than fingers. But then it doesn’t let up, driving in further, deeper, into the crevices John needs filled, overwhelming the relentless ache with exquisite pleasure. And it doesn’t even stop after that.

_“Fuck._ Sherlock—I think—”

It’s not too big, because it’s _not_. They have to be compatible this way, two halves of a whole, they _have_ to—

“John.”

John gasps. Sherlock kisses the inside of his ankle. The movement is a little awkward, but it’s touchingly tender all the same.

“I have you.”

John nods. Sherlock pushes forward. John yelps and jerks like he’s been electrified, but—that was it. He can feel the tantalizing bulge of Sherlock’s knot beginning to swell, sitting just inside the rim of his anus. He whimpers.

“Can I...?” Sherlock whispers.

John nods. Sherlock tries one small thrust, in and out. It’s less that John cries out and more like the air is pressed from his lungs and catches in his throat.

“Was that—”

John laughs. Giggles, more like. “Yeah, it was. Do it again.”

Sherlock, bless him, does, and does it again, and again, and again.

John arches into every thrust, unabashed in his joy. God, it’s _impossibly_ good, and it’s only their first time.

He strokes Sherlock’s hair and brings their foreheads together. “We could’ve been doing this for ages,” he says.

Sherlock shakes his head and kisses him.

He pushes in hard and something flares in John, making him jerk and yelp. It knocks his leg off Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock catches it and hooks it over his elbow. John slaps his hands against the headboard and pushes back. Sherlock gasps. John lets out a breathless laugh.

Sherlock’s mouth slants into a grin. “If you can laugh, I’m not working hard enough.”

John grins back. “If you can talk, I’m not.”

He wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist and pulls him in. Sherlock’s breath punches out with a harsh groan. John gasps. The change in angle means Sherlock’s cock is prodding his sweet spot, sparking starbursts of sensation through his core.

He swallows a sob and pulls Sherlock into a kiss. “Make us lose our _minds.”_

Sherlock moves and John sighs out the tension. It winds up again almost immediately, a back and forth of almost-there. It peaks and breaks into a devastating spasm that makes John gasp and twist to the side. He gulps in a breath and clings to Sherlock’s arms as Sherlock fucks him through it.

Sherlock is hissing encouragement— _“yes,_ John, I _have_ you, you’re _mine”_ —and it's too much, it's all too much to bear—an other spasm, even more powerful, comes crashing over him on the tail end of the first, reducing him to a shaking, mewling mess.

“Make me come,” John says in a rush. “God, _please_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock makes a sound like he’s been gut-shot and moves harder, faster, deeper.

John throws his head back and _yells_. He tries to take deep breaths and stave off the inevitable, but it’s fast barreling down on him, ominous and unavoidable. His muscles quiver as another spasm quavers in his belly. It’s only a shadow of what’s to come and it’s already enough to muddle the words in his mouth and melt his limbs.

“Oh. _Oh,_ God, Sherlock, I’m nearly— _ah_ —nearly—”

Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck and just groans. He kicks up his pace. John squirms, straining towards orgasm. He’s close, clinging to the edge of the precipice, but it’s not quite enough. He grits his teeth and whines. He can’t stay like this forever...can he? What if he _never_ comes? What if he’s trapped here, overwhelmed but not quite overcome?

Just as the thought occurs, Sherlock’s teeth rake over John’s throat. His muscles pull taut.

_ “Yes.” _

Sherlock growls and bites down. With a cry, John topples over the brink.

Oh God, it’s been so long since he had a knot he’d forgotten. His entire body is rocked with the force of the contractions around Sherlock’s cock, rippling down its length and sealing it inside. Shockwaves echo through him and rack him with pleasure. Sherlock shouts, and something wet bursts inside of John. He draws Sherlock in and clings to him as they rock their way through. For this moment, they are almost perfectly one, two halves locking neatly together into a seamless whole.

It passes. It always does.

John relaxes.

Sherlock is still draped over him, still knotted. John strokes a hand down his flank.

“Wake up.”

“Mm.”

John smiles. “Budge over. I can’t feel my leg.”

John carefully reorients them so Sherlock is on his back and he is sitting on top, impaled. He rocks a little. Sherlock’s breath catches, and there’s another wet pulse inside of John’s arse. John sighs.

“Thank you,” he says.

Sherlock opens his eyes. He frowns. “Thank…you too?”

John laughs and kisses his forehead. “There’s no script. You don’t have to worry about me kicking you out of the bed.”

“On the contrary, there is _always_ a script. ‘Kicking me out of bed,’ as you say, would at this point be impossible, as—why are you laughing?”

“Nothing,” John says, with a final chuckle.

Sherlock scowls. “Regardless…thank you.”

John kisses him again, this time on the lips. He doesn’t let himself linger long. “Was that what you were going to say?”

Sherlock’s cheeks color. “Er—no.”

John smiles. “Well, then. It’s good to save something for the next time?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but lingering doubt turns up the end of the sentence all the same. Sherlock looks pacified.

“Yes,” he says. “For the next time.”


End file.
